


just ignore my stupid head

by binchmarner



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Auston Matthews needs a hug, Bipolar Disorder, Character Study, Gen, Medication, Mitch Marner is a good friend, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 21:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binchmarner/pseuds/binchmarner
Summary: Sometimes, Auston’s on top of the world. Sometimes, the mania’s not prompted by anything, a burst of energy holding him up to Mitchy levels of excitement.But it lasts longer than that. Auston’s buzzing after the game. So he takes his equipment, drives to the nearest outdoor rink he could find, and practices.It’s morning before he’s tired.





	just ignore my stupid head

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you found this story because you saw your name or someone you know listed here, please click away now.
> 
> thank you to sun for looking this over and for ki and chuck for hyping me up about it. 
> 
> title of the fic comes from dodie's [down.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7RiJeswrEbw)
> 
> check the end notes for in depth triggers.

The day to day is funny, in hindsight. Auston has a schedule he follows whether he likes it or not. He gets up at 8 am every day—unless they’re called to the airport earlier—and heads to the bathroom. Does his ADLs, his _Activities of Daily Living:_ brushing his teeth, combing his hair, putting on clean clothes. He sets reminders for these every day because he knows without them he’ll forget. 

Or he won’t do them. 

He goes on a run, then comes back to shower and set up breakfast and coffee for when Mitch arrives. Go on with his day, ignore the feeling of a ball weight chained to his foot, dragging along behind him every step he takes. He does his job, then crashes on his couch and sleeps until 2 am. He gets up, forces himself to brush his teeth, and then falls asleep in his own bed, lulled only by the steady hum of the heater turning on.

Sometimes, Auston’s on top of the world. It normally happens when he’s scored a goal or has played a good game. Every nerve in his body lights up, filling him with energy. His cellies last a little too long, but it’s okay because he’s the face of the Toronto Maple Leafs. He’s a newbie. He’s good at what he does, so it doesn’t matter. Sometimes, the mania’s not prompted by anything, a burst of energy holding him up to Mitchy levels of excitement.

But it lasts longer than that. Auston’s buzzing after the game. The energy lasts long enough through the bar and the Uber, Call of Duty with Mitch, and even when he goes to bed, it feels like he should do something. So he takes his equipment, drives to the nearest outdoor rink he could find, and practices.

It’s morning before he’s tired.

Sometimes, when he has time to spare, when the feeling of dread is too much, when it’s too cold in his apartment all alone, he spends the extra five minutes in bed, wishing he could stay like that all day.

But he can’t.

He’s got things to do. 

“There’s a life to live, Auston; you’ve got to know that,” his therapist says when he mentions there being cement shoes on his feet when he starts his day.

She’s good at her job, he thinks. He’s glad that Babs sent him to her. Jenna doesn’t care that he’s a hockey player, only that he’s got the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. Sometimes he just sits on her couch and cries, doesn’t say anything for the entire hour, and she doesn’t push him. Jenna doesn’t touch him, doesn’t make any move that would encroach on his personal space, just gestures to the box of tissues. “It’s there if you need it, Auston.”

The first time he talks to her, she understands. Sympathizes. He’s alone in Toronto, an transplant from Arizona with so much expectation. He wonders sometimes where she came from, her warm southern American accent out of place in the cold Canadian winter.

She walks through his medicine with him as well. Talks to him like he’s a human being, and not Patient Zero like the team psychiatrist does. He’s put on a mood stabilizer. He’s good until he looks up the medicine, sees that it’s an antipsychotic medicine, and calls her in a frenzy.

“Auston?” she says. It’s 2 in the morning and he’s looked up his medication to see if he can drink on it, and he hasn’t exactly learned how to not ‘let his emotions run the show,’ whatever the fuck that means.

“I’m not taking the-the Val-Valpro— the medicine. It’s an antipsychotic, and I’m not psychotic, I don’t have schizo, so why the fuck am I on this medication?” Auston demands to know. His breathing is ragged and his heart is beating too fast.

He feels like he hasn’t slept in days, but it’s an off day, and he blew off Mitchy in favor of taking a nap which is decidedly Not Good because it’s now 2 am and he’s wide fucking awake and he has to be up in six hours to get ready for 10 am practice. His chest is constricted like there’s a snake around him, holding him in a vice grip and he’s dying, he knows he is, he’s going to die from lack of oxygen or something and it’ll be better than this—

“Auston, I’m going to need you to regulate your breathing,” Jenna says, and it sounds muffled as the blood’s rushed to his ears, thumping and pounding like he’s done a full workout, when all he’s done is sat cross legged on his bed.

“I’m trying,” he says, and sniffs, and when did he start crying?

“And you’re doing a great job! Just keep breathing,” she says, calm and collected like she always is. Oh, how he envies her for it.

“I can’t,” he says after a moment, digging the heel of his palm into his eye, wiping away tears.

“You can. This is just another exercise, like you’ve taken a couple laps around the rink, hon,” and that gets him to laugh at least a little. She honestly has no idea what or how he does what he does for a living, and it’s refreshing, a breath of fresh air. It gets his mind off of the impending doom his brain loves to put in front of him.

“Yeah, feels like more than a couple,” he jokes. He does that sometimes. A joke or two to stop his mental health from spending time in the limelight. She calls him out on it more often than not, but it’s late and she’s tired, he figures. 

“You’re put on Depakote as a mood stabilizer. Yes, it’s an antipsychotic used to treat seizures, but we’re using it as a mood stabilizer. I’d like to talk to you about it more in depth on Tuesday, if that’s alright,” she says carefully, like he’s a bomb set to burst. Auston nods before he realizes he actually has to say something, as she can’t actually see him like she normally can when he goes nonverbal in therapy.

“Yeah, yes. Of course. Thank you. I’m sorry for calling you so late,” Auston looks at the clock, the glaring red numbers shout 2:30am. 

“Oh, hon, bless your heart. You know you can call me whenever! Are we still good on our agreement?” Jenna asks, waiting patiently for Auston’s answer.

“I promise to you and myself that I won’t go crazy, do something reckless, or hurt or kill myself or anyone else,” he says like it’s second nature. She wishes him a good night and hangs up. His thumb hovers over the call button again, on a different contact. He takes a deep breath, and calls.

“Papi, what’s wrong?” his mother asks. “You never call so late at night.”

“Nothing, I—” _I’m on a mood stabilizer because it feels like I’m walking through quicksand, I’m not strong enough to do this alone, come up here and help me._ “I just miss your hugs, momma,” he says, allowing his voice to crack, be thick with tears and homesickness.

“Oh, Auston,” she says, sighing. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m on medicine, Momma. They put me on medicine. I’m not okay. I’m so sad. I sleep—I sleep all the time. And then I play a game and I don’t sleep all night, and I crash that next night, God forbid I have another game the next day,” Auston says in a rush, his eyes squeezed shut so no tears leak.

“Are they taking care of you? Are you eating?” his mother says, and he looks down at his lap in shame, pointedly Not Looking at the half eaten snack bag of chips on his night table.

“I haven’t been hungry,” he says lamely.

“Papi, you’ve gotta eat,” she says, just as calm as Jenna, but the words cut deeper because she’s Auston’s _mom._

“Mama, I know, I—” he takes a deep shaky breath. “I don’t want to deal with this anymore, Mama.”

“I’d take this away for you if I could, Papi. You want me to come up tomorrow?” 

Those words are enough to crack any wall, any insecurity he’s built up surrounding his mental health around his mom. He lays back down. He wants her now, knows that she’d catch a red eye to the airport the moment he says yes. He’s so tired of doing it on his own, slugging through the day to day with only the mania to keep him sane.

“Yes, please, Mama,” he says, soft, like he’s a child again. “I can buy you the plane ticket so you don’t have to worry about money and—”

“Papi, please. Breathe, for me?” she asks, and as always, he does what she says. “Good. You know the money isn’t a problem, it hasn’t been a problem for a while. I’ll be up in the morning after practice. I need you to get some sleep for me, and set an alarm so Mitch doesn’t bang down your door. Have you gotten ready for bed?”

“ADLs? Yeah, I’ve done them.”

“Have you taken the medication your doctor has prescribed you?” she asks, and Auston shakes his head.

“No, I—”

“Auston. You’ve gotta take your medicine. Your body’s on a clock, and the more times you take your medicine at the same time each day, the better the medication will work,” His mom says, and Auston knows it’s because it’s 2:30 and he’s tired, but he’s so sick of people walking on eggshells around him.

“Mama, I don’t wanna be here anymore,” he says, and it’s broken and his voice is wrecked from crying.

“What, in Toronto?” she says softly.

“No,” Auston says, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep back tears. He’s not...he’s not suicidal. He just. 

He just doesn’t want to be here.

~~

The chimes on his phone wake him up at 8 am, and Auston groans, snoozing the alarm.

 _C’mon, Aus. You’ve gotta get up,_ a voice that sounds way too much like his mom says in his head, coaxing him out of bed. He keeps himself from pouting, pulling the duvet over his head.

Just five more minutes. It’s cold and he slept like shit after the call with his mom, and he’s still trying to decide if he needs to call Jenna and tell her about his new thoughts that are sort of scaring him.

Just five more minutes.

\---

He’s awoken again by a knocking on his bedroom door. 

“Aus? Aus come on, you’ve gotta get out of bed. You missed morning skate,” Mitch says, opening the door. Auston blinks his eyes open, checking his phone. The numbers on his phone, in fact, said 12:00.

“Fuck, it’s noon,” Auston wipes his eyes. “Fuck, no, wait, I missed skate?” Auston sits up, blood rushing to his head.

“Don’t worry, it was optional. I hadn’t heard from you since yesterday, and I figured you were just taking a day to veg, don’t worry.” Mitch says, and the anxiety in Auston’s chest only tightens and spreads. 

“Fuck, I need to skate. I need to practice. I need to prepare for the game on Sunday. I need—" Auston rambles, moving to get out of bed. His head spins out a tale of him on the second line and losing the game, no assists, no goals. They lose and everyone blames Auston and it’s because he didn’t show up for optional skate.

“Aus, Aus, Matts, hold on,” Mitch says, walking to the other side of Auston’s bed and slips under the covers. “Come here.”

Auston can’t breathe. He’s too hot and still too fucking cold in his boxers and a Leafs sweatshirt and he’s repressing the urge to scratch at his skin. He wraps his arms around Mitch, and lets him guide Auston through deep breathing exercises. 

“In, Out, In, Out,” Mitch says, letting Auston slump against him. “You’re doing fine, everything is going to be fine.”

“My mom’s coming,” Auston says after he’s gotten his breathing under control. “She said she would, I called her last night—”

“Dude, is everything okay?” Mitch asks, his voice soft. There’s no hesitation around it, pure curiosity. 

“I’m just—stressed,” Auston lies, drawing in a shaky breath.

“Are you sure that’s it?” Mitch says, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on Auston’s shoulder.

“Mental health stuff. It sucks, and I don’t know what to do,” Auston says. “They’re saying I have bipolar disorder.”

“That’s scary, I’m sorry,” Mitch says. “What can I do to help you?”

“Can you just hold me? I know it’s stupid, but—”

“Dude, it’s okay,” Mitch says, wrapping his arms around Auston. “Breathe, okay?”

“Thanks. For being here, and like, doing things, and I just—I’m not broken, I’m just—”

“Bent?” Mitch finishes with a grin. Auston rolls his eyes.

“You did not just quote Pink at me when I’m calming down from a panic attack,” Auston says, smiling in spite of himself. Mitch chuckles.

“Looks like I did, dude,” Mitch squeezes Auston tighter, and the pressure makes the ball of anxiety in Auston’s chest untangle just a little. “You’re going to be okay, you know that right?”

“No, I don’t,” Auston says, his voice quiet. Mitch hooks his chin on Auston’s shoulder. “What if I’m like this forever?”

“Then you’ll have a support system of friends and family that will help you,” Mitch says. “I’m not going to disappear, Aus.”

Auston takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Mitch.”

Mitch hums. “No problem, dude,” he says. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna set an alarm for 1:30, and then we’ll start the day. Order in food and get ready for your mom to come, okay?”

“Okay,” Auston nods, closing his eyes. 

They fall asleep between one breath and the next.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was incredibly difficult to write so please be gentle
> 
> triggers:  
> auston has diagnosed bipolar disorder and he's not taking his medication or eating.  
> vague ideation of suicide but not imminent enough that he attempts.


End file.
